All the Queen's Players Read online

  “Well, you certainly seem to have irritated your brother, Mistress Rosamund,” Kit said with a half smile. “What’s to do now?”

  Rosamund grimaced at the closed door. “I don’t think I can risk being here when Thomas comes out again.” She glanced at Kit, a gleam of mischief in her green eyes as a wave of recklessness surged through her. Everyone was so angry with her already, what had she got to lose? “Sir Francis says he has no further need of me today. Take me to the theatre, Kit.”

  He whistled softly. “You would drag me into this imbroglio, would you?”

  “Please.”

  Chapter Eight

  IN A NARROW house colloquially known as the Little Rose on Rose Alley in Bankside, Will Creighton with one final thrust gave a great cry of exultation and fell onto the soft body of the woman beneath him. He lay panting, his face buried in her ample breasts, until she gave him a tentative push. “You’ve had your half hour, Master Will. You know how Master Henslowe keeps a close watch on the clock. He’ll fine me if I keep a customer over his time.”

  Will groaned but rolled sideways, falling onto his back on the faded coverlet. One hand rested on the woman’s stomach as he blinked blearily at the beamed ceiling above. Philip Henslowe’s brothels were cleaner than most and his women were regularly checked for the pox, but he kept a tight rein on his girls, and a close eye on his clientele. The girls put up with the cut he took from their earnings because he kept them safe for the most part, unless they were willing to indulge in rough sport, then he would charge the client a pretty penny for it and the girl would get something extra for her pain.

  Will turned his head to smile at the girl lying beside him. “I wish I could afford to take you out of here, Lily. But I could never meet Henslowe’s price.”

  She leaned on an elbow, stroking his mouth with a fingertip. “I know. But I could meet you private sometimes.” Her eyes looked a question even though she knew the answer.

  Will sat up, shaking his head. “Don’t be foolish, Lily. If Henslowe found out you were entertaining privately, he’d make sure no man would ever want to look at you again. I wouldn’t be responsible for that.”

  The girl made no reply, instead climbing from the bed and going over to the cheap dresser underneath the window. Will was right. Philip Henslowe was a ruthless master and she’d seen what he did to women who cheated him. Scalding water, branding irons, sharp knives, were all in his arsenal. But sometimes she thought Will, who professed such ardor for her, ought to be powerful enough, queen’s courtier as he was, to take her far enough away out of Henslowe’s reach. But either his ardor was not as strong as he maintained, or he had not the courage to brave the brothel king’s fury. Whichever it was, the result was the same. If she couldn’t meet a savior, she was doomed to the life of a brothel whore.

  She spent a few minutes at the washbasin with a cloth, freshening herself for her next customer, then pulled down her skimpy shift and dropped her tawdry gown over her head. Will watched her with a mixture of hunger and compassion. He had been her regular customer for almost six months now, and she knew well how to please him. He was fond of her in his own way. She was young, still with the freshness of a girl, firm-fleshed and supple, her skin clear. He wondered how long it would take for that bloom to wither, the ripe flesh to lose its firmness. Once she no longer drew customers, Henslowe would cast her out and she’d be selling herself in the stews, behind the hedgerows and in the alleys.

  It was a melancholy thought and Will wondered if it would make a poem, maybe a ballad. He could compose a doleful ditty about failing beauty and set it to music. The ladies of the court, particularly the younger ones, tended to gaze with soulful eyes on a courtier plucking sorrowfully on a lute.

  He got off the bed and laced his britches, straightened his stockings, and looked for his shoes. In the importunity of lust he’d cast them off in such haste they were at opposite ends of the chamber. Silently Lily fetched them for him, then went to the door, waiting while he fastened the buckles.

  As he came to the door, Will reached awkwardly into the slit in his doublet that gave access to his purse and fingered a penny. He would have to pay Henslowe himself directly for Lily’s services, but he wanted to give her something for herself. The trouble was, he had little enough to spare. But a penny would be an insult, a suitable douceur for a whore from the stews, and his fingers closed over a shilling.

  He took out the shilling and pressed it into her hand, bending to kiss her cheek as he murmured, “I’ll be back soon.”

  Lily managed a small smile, her fingers closing over the coin, identifying it by touch. It wasn’t a gold noble, but neither was it a copper penny. A silver shilling would add to her hidden cache of coins beneath the loose floorboard under the bed, and one day she might have enough to buy her freedom.

  She opened the door, and with a quick wave Will took the narrow stairs down to the hall. Philip Henslowe appeared as if conjured from the air as Will came off the bottom step.

  “You enjoyed your afternoon, I trust, sir? Lily looked after you? I’ll keep her fresh for you for next time.” Henslowe leered. “Blood runs hot in a young fellow like yourself.”

  Will didn’t answer. He handed the whoremaster his silver penny and went out into the warm afternoon as Henslowe said to his back, “We’re always here, Master Creighton. A service for all tastes. When Lily no longer suits, I’m sure I can find a girl, someone fresher perhaps, who will.”

  Will’s orgasm-induced euphoria faded as he stood on the slimy cobbles of Rose Alley with Henslowe’s grimy insinuations in his ears. Habituating brothels was a tawdry business even when the harlot was as sweet and appealing as Lily. But a man had his needs when all was said and he had no realistic hope of finding a mistress at court. Oh, the young ladies there were more than willing to flirt, sometimes even to exchange a kiss, but they had too much to lose to go any further down the paths of passion with a youthful courtier who had looks to recommend him but little else in the currency of wealth and influence on which the court operated. Besides, Will had no desire to find himself fighting a duel on Finsbury Fields over some maiden’s lost virtue.

  He could hear the roaring of the crowd from the bear garden at the end of the alley and set off in that direction. At the end of the alley he paused to watch workmen scurrying over a building they were erecting. Philip Henslowe had fingers in many pies and this was his latest venture, a new theatre to be called the Rose. It was said in the world of players and playmakers that the popularity of the theatres of Shoreditch would not last much longer. They were too far from the city center and the other amusements, the bear garden and bull-baiting ring in particular. Henslowe had bought a share in the bear pit and was constructing his theatre a few yards from it in what had been a rose garden. Already he was trying to lure players away from Burbage’s ventures in Shoreditch, and he was searching for new plays.

  Will himself was working on a play about Odysseus’ return to Ithaca and the archery contest with Penelope’s suitors. It had a grand feel to it, romance and passion, bravery and skill in equal parts. Of course it would have to be licensed by the queen’s Master of the Revels before he could hope to see it performed. But it was another good reason to maintain cordial relations with Henslowe, a man who could soon be in a position to buy new works by an untried playmaker.

  His feet had found their way to the bear garden. He hesitated, wondering if he could afford the penny entrance fee after his afternoon’s pleasuring. Later he intended to attend a play at the Curtain and he would need coin for that. It was one of Achelley’s works, with the player John Lodge. Will had not yet seen Lodge on the stage, but he had heard enough about the player’s inimitable skill to make him anxious not to miss the opportunity.

  Even as he hesitated, he caught sight of two people in lively discussion at the gates to the garden. He recognized them immediately. The newcomer Kit Marlowe and the same girl he’d seen with Marlowe and Thomas Walsingham at the Theatre, Mistress Rosamund Walsingham.r />
  He hurried over to them, greeting them with a sweep of his hat and a bow. “Well met, Master Marlowe, Mistress Walsingham. Are you going to the baiting?”

  “That is a matter for discussion, sir,” Marlowe said rather glumly. “I am in the mood, but the lady here is reluctant.”

  “I cannot endure the cruelty,” Rosamund stated. “And the smell of blood makes me vomit. You will not wish to be by my side in such a circumstance I assure you, Master Marlowe.” Even as she spoke, a great shout went up from the crowd and folk started surging back through the gates.

  “It seems the problem has found its own solution,” Will said. “The entertainment seems to be concluded. Either the bear or the dogs must have succumbed sooner than usual.”

  Kit looked disappointed, but the crowd for the most part seemed in affable mood, laughing, squabbling, tripping over each other. The bloody nature of the entertainment must have come up to expectations, he reflected, even if it was somewhat curtailed.

  “Well, so much for that,” he said. “Now for the theatre. Do you join us, Master Creighton?”

  Will responded swiftly, “Indeed, I should like to. I was going myself in the hopes of seeing John Lodge at the Curtain.” He smiled at Rosamund. “You have no objections to my company, I trust, Mistress Walsingham.”

  “Not in the least, Master Creighton. On condition, of course, that you forget you ever saw me this afternoon.” She returned the smile, her eyes slightly narrowed against the sun that made her hair glow rich and russet.

  He bowed again. “That goes without saying, madam.”

  They began to move with the crowd towards the riverbank and the skiffs that ferried folk across the river.

  “We should take a skiff across,” Will said as they reached the river. “It’ll take an hour to walk across the bridge with this crowd.” He turned towards the place on the bank where a flotilla of skiffs touted for custom. Kit put two fingers to his lips and whistled. Three of the little ferryboats turned instantly in response, and with a volley of curses the ferrymen jostled with each other, one pushing another away with his oar. The victor brought his boat to the wooden quay and Kit jumped in, holding out a hand to Rosamund, who took it and jumped lightly into the stern.

  The ferryman pulled strongly to the opposite bank. London Bridge rose on their right and Rosamund’s gaze fixed in fascination on the row of blackened, eyeless heads on pikes that adorned the structure. She could count over fifty on this side of the bridge alone. The realm had many enemies.

  They stepped out onto the water steps on the far side of the river and Kit reached into his pocket to pay the waterman. Will made some murmur of protestation but didn’t press the matter when Kit waved him down, tossing the coin to the ferryman.

  “I’m hungry,” Rosamund announced as her stomach growled suddenly. She had broken her fast very early that morning.

  “There’s an eating house close to the Curtain theatre,” Will said. “They have a good ordinary.”

  Kit was rarely hungry, but always thirsty he agreed readily enough and they made their way to a tavern next door to the theatre where the flag flew jauntily, the trumpet sounded its clarion call, and the groundlings already gathered at the doors.

  They ate at the communal table, digging into the pots of veal stew and braised leeks as they circulated, ladling the fragrant contents onto bread trenchers. Flagons of burgundy were passed around and a great round of cheese. Rosamund kept her head down, anxious not to draw attention to herself. Even though her brother was not here, she felt an obligation to conceal her identity as far as possible. Kit seemed unconcerned and, as usual, filled his cup many times over while the food cooled on his trencher.

  Will devoted his attention to Rosamund, making sure she had everything she wanted and that her wine cup was full. He was very curious as to why she was on such an unconventional outing with only the playmaker’s escort. “Where is your brother this afternoon?” he asked, cutting into the round of cheese as it passed him.

  Rosamund grimaced. “He was deep in conversation with our cousin Sir Francis when we left.”

  “Ah, of course, you are cousin to the secretary of state.” Will nodded and offered her a piece of cheese on the point of his dagger. “An august relative, I congratulate you.”

  Rosamund took the cheese and gave him her impish smile. “It’s hardly a matter for congratulation, Master Will, since I had little to do with it.”

  He inclined his head in smiling acknowledgment. “Nevertheless you are too modest. Most people at court take credit for their august relatives regardless of what they did to deserve them.”

  “I daresay I will learn such ways eventually.” Rosamund reached for her wine cup.

  “When are you to be presented?” He concealed his great interest in the answer. Apart from finding her increasingly attractive, both in her free and easy manner and in her appearance, he was interested in all things Walsingham. He was hoping to augment his meager income with some work for Master Secretary, and cultivating the secretary’s young cousin could only do him good.

  Rosamund frowned. “I don’t know as yet. There is the matter of a court dress to be settled first.” As she sipped her wine, she became aware that she had drunk more than usual and her tongue seemed to be running rather loosely. Instinct told her it would not be wise to share that particular quarrel with this near stranger or indeed with anyone associated with the court. The story of her impoverishment and the meanness of her relatives could run like wildfire along the gossip channels and would do her no good at all.

  She was saved from further indiscretion when Kit pushed himself back on the long bench and rose to his feet. “Come, ’tis time for entertainment.”

  The performance was as magical for Rosamund as the last one. The play was different, more amusing, and as she laughed at the comical antics of one of the players, she found herself inching closer to Will Creighton, who seemed to be sharing her delight and her amusement in equal parts. He laid a companionable hand on her arm at one point when they both lost themselves in peals of laughter and she made no attempt to shake it off or move away.

  As they emerged into the gathering dusk, still chuckling at the finale of the play, Will was hailed by a group of young men coming down from the gallery by the outside stairs. Hastily Rosamund took a step back so that she was behind Kit. She adjusted her hood, drawing it tightly over her forehead. Will glanced over his shoulder, then gave her a quick conspiratorial wink and hurried away to join his friends.

  Kit turned to face her with a comical frown. “Let’s hope our friend is discreet. Now we had better hurry back and face whatever music is to be played.”

  He waited at the door to the mansion on Seething Lane until Mortlake let her in, then with a bow stepped back into the street. “I wish you luck, Mistress Walsingham. If you need my assistance again, pray call upon me.”

  Rosamund couldn’t help a little grin, despite her trepidation. She made her way to Ursula’s parlor and was amazed when she was greeted with a serene smile and asked if she had enjoyed her outing. “Master Marlowe is a close friend of your brother’s I understand. There can be no objection to your having such an escort with your brother’s permission.” Ursula set another stitch.

  Rosamund smiled her assent. The issue of Thomas’s permission was best left to go by default. He wouldn’t do anything to harm his sister’s chances with Sir Francis by denying it had been given, however furious he might be with her. She gave an exaggerated yawn. “I would seek my bed, madam, if you will excuse me. The day has been rather tiring.”

  “Of course, my dear. And in the morning, we must discuss your wardrobe.”

  Rosamund’s eyes widened in surprise. She curtsied. “Oh . . . but of course, madam. I am at your disposal.” She curtsied hastily again and beat a retreat.

  “Now, Rosamund dear, let me see how this works.” Lady Walsingham held up a gown of rose velvet embroidered with seed pearls in a delicate flower pattern. “Help me with the train, Henny, ’ti
s very heavy.” Henny rushed to hold up the long train.

  “What do you think, Rosamund?”

  Rosamund clasped her hands together in delight. “It’s beautiful, madam.” When Ursula had told her at breakfast on the day after her excursion with Kit that she intended to have two court dresses fashioned for her out of two gowns that she no longer wore, Rosamund had done her best to sound thrilled and grateful, but the thought of wearing Lady Walsingham’s castoffs had depressed her. She had let none of that show, however, during a morning of measuring and discussions about ribbons and pieces of lace, and gold thread. Now, three days later, looking at the finished article, she forgot all her reservations. “Should I try it on?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . . but you must have a Spanish farthingale. You will need to practice wearing it, there is a knack to handling the width it gives the skirts. Take off your dress and petticoat.”

  Rosamund obediently divested herself of the well-worn tawny velvet, reflecting that it needed cleaning and some time in the linen press with fresh lavender in the folds. She stepped out of the stiffened canvas frame and stood in her linen shift and wool stockings.

  Lady Walsingham fussed as Henny fastened the boned farthingale at Rosamund’s waist. “It must sit just so. If ’tis not straight, the gown will not move correctly. There . . .” She stepped back, her head to one side as she examined her handiwork. “Yes, that will do. Now the bodice, Henny.”

  Rosamund gasped as Henny laced the boned bodice at her back. “Not so tight, I beg you.”

  “You will learn to manage,” Ursula said on an unusually firm note. “It’s unfortunate you have never been accustomed to it. It is most necessary.”

  Grimly Rosamund held her breath as the bones cut into her skin beneath the thin shift. She would get used to it. She forgot her discomfort when she stepped into the dress. Over the boned bodice it fitted like a glove. The skirts hung in straight, graceful folds over the farthingale. The square-cut neck was edged in seed pearls, and the wide sleeves were lined in ivory damask. The train was heavy, and when she walked, it seemed designed to trap her feet. She stopped in dismay. “How does one walk, madam?”